


Clean

by LivingSilver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, Smut, choking kink if you squint, mildly rough sex, sex on top of the impala, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14020362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingSilver/pseuds/LivingSilver
Summary: "Sorry, guess I should have warned you," Dean apologizes sheepishly."I think you were enough warning," you reply, nodding at his own blackened hands and arms. "I don't mind."You both move to stand, coming out from beneath the hood.





	Clean

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea how this got written, because I literally work like 50 hours a week now and I'm exhausted all the time, but also I've been dragged back into the void that is Supernatural and apparently I'm still thirsty af for Dean Winchester. 
> 
> Fair warning I guess this could be interpreted as an implied choking kink, its there if you squint I guess, but its not described in detail.

You're idly reading through some lore when Dean enters the library--hands and forearms streaked black with grease. His shirt peppered with phantom hand prints. Jaw set with determination, he motions to you with the socket wrench in his hand.

 

"C'mon I need you for something." He rumbles gruffly.

 

"Oh really?" You ask arching a brow, teasing him mildly.

 

"I need you for something, please?" Dean amends, looking at you expectantly.

 

"If you say so," You leave your book and the table, following him to the garage where the hood of Baby is popped open, tools littering the garage floor.

 

"I'm not sure I'm going to be much help," you state uneasily.

 

"Sure you are," Dean tosses a glance over his shoulder as you both come to a stand in front of the open hood.

 

"See, down in there--" Dean shines a flashlight down into a small gap between various gears and wires. "There's a bolt down there that needs to be tightened. And your hands are a lot smaller than mine."

 

"Hmm." You note indifferently. "I guess I can try."

 

"Alright just see if you can reach first."

 

You bend over the engine, and Dean moves around to the side of the hood to better aim the flashlight.

 

Taking a breath you slip a hand apprehensively into the depths of the engine--it barely fits in the gap that Dean showed you. Dean leans in closer, trying in vain to see anything, to give you any kind of direction.

 

Your fingers don't snag on the bolt until you're in past your wrist. You turn to look at Dean, startled by how close he is; faces separated by a few maybe inches, his shoulder brushing yours.

 

"I think I found it," you murmur, withdrawing your hand in streaks of black grease. "Give me the wrench".

 

Dean places it in your upturned palm with a certain weight, hand lingering on yours.

 

"Don't hurt her."

 

"Wow, really."

 

"Hey, I know you would never _mean_ to--"

 

"Yeah, thanks."

 

Dean withdraws his hand, skin tingling in the wake of his touch.

 

You return your hand to the engine, it catches momentarily with the wrench and you pray you'll be able to pull it back out.

 

It takes a good few minutes to do, but you manage to connect the wrench with bolt after a few tries.

 

"How do I know if it's tight enough?"

 

"Well if she falls apart, I guess we'll know it wasn't tight enough."

 

"Dean--"

 

"Just go as much as you can." The low register of his voice shoots straight down your spine.  You're suddenly struggling to focus on the task at hand. Arm straining at the awkward angle, the tight space only letting you tighten half a rotation at a time if that.

 

Clink. The closeness of Dean. Rotate. The warm scent of whiskey, leather, and sun washing over you. Reset. His shoulder now pressed against yours as you've both been leaning in more and more. Clink. The warmth of his skin somehow burning through both of your layers. Rotate. The green of his eyes intently flicking between your concentrated gaze and the point where your arm has disappeared into the heart of his baby. Reset. Rough hands leaving you stained  with motor oil. Clink. Lips claiming yours--clunk. The bolt won't go anymore.

 

Your eyes meet simultaneously.

 

"Guess that's as much as it'll go," you return your gaze back to the engine, but your eyes linger a moment too long on Dean's mouth on the way back down.

 

"Knew you could do it," full lips curve into a half smile.

 

Your finger tips emerge in an inky black that peppers out into trails leading all the up to your forearm.

 

"Sorry, guess I should have warned you," Dean apologizes sheepishly.

 

"I think you were enough warning," you reply, nodding at his own blackened hands and arms. "I don't mind."

 

You both move to stand, coming out from beneath the hood.

 

"Here," You offer the wrench back to Dean.

 

Instead of taking the wrench, Dean moves around from the side of the hood, coming to stand in front of you. Green eyes glinting some unreadable spark. He reaches fluidly around you with one hand, body grazing yours, to shut the hood. It slams shut with a loud metallic noise that echoes off the hard walls of the garage.

 

Dean pulls back, gaze falling to the wrench still in your grasp, before trailing back up to your mouth. He leans in, tip of his nose brushing your cheek before lowering his mouth to yours in a chaste question of a kiss. A moment of disbelief hangs over you. Dean's lips are pulling away, mistaking the moment for something else, and you tentatively chase them. Mouths exchanging a series of feather light kisses.

 

Strong fingers circle your wrist, tugging you against flush him, pulse fluttering wildly beneath his grip. The wrench still clasped in your hand clatters to the floor. Dean's tongue licks hungrily against the seam of your mouth, and you open eagerly for him in a sharp intake of breath. Kiss deepening as he backs you against the hood of the Impala, swallowing your moan when he presses a thigh between your own.

 

You break the kiss, overwhelmed with the flush of adrenaline and arousal flooding your senses.

 

"Dean," you murmur breathlessly, gazing up at him with blown pupils.

 

"You okay? Is this okay?" Dean questions lowly.

 

"I'm okay. Everything's okay," you reassure him, moving to recapture his mouth, teeth snagging on his full lower lip, savoring the way his breath hitches.

 

Your grease stained hands each roam the other's body, caressing the curve of rib cages, then moving around to stroke over the planes of shoulder blades, leaving patterns of black in their wake.

 

Dean's mouth moves away from yours to taste the column of your throat, tongue flicking over your pulse point. Dean lifts you easily to set you on the edge of the hood. You sigh wrapping your legs around his waist.

 

He presses against your center, both groaning at the denim inflicted friction. Your fingertips tease the hem of his shirt; Dean breaks away to remove the offending item, tearing it off carelessly, revealing the perfection of his hardened body. You take advantage of the opportunity to remove your own shirt, carefully peeling it off.

 

Dean curses lowly, hungrily capturing your mouth, covering your body with his own as he lowers you onto the hood of the car, the cool metallic sensation against your back causing you to curve up against Dean.

 

Roughened hands roaming the expanse of newly exposed skin, body purring beneath his touch, he kisses the swell of your breasts, mouth skimming the edge of your bra, but ultimately leaving the garment in place. There's still a chance Sam could come in.

 

It isn't long before he's deftly popping open the button on your jeans, sliding the zipper down-- you lift your hips just enough for Dean to tug them down, stretching your legs out for him to get them all the way off.

 

Dean brings his fingers to your panties, moving to stroke your center before belatedly taking in the black marks that litter your body and looking down at his hands.

 

" Fuck I'm sorry, I should have known better, I need to clean up," Dean grumbles, beginning to turn away--you catch him with your away legs, ankles locking around his hips.

 

"No," you state softly.

 

"No?"

 

"I told you, I don't mind," you say, popping open his jeans, sliding the zipper down over the bulge there.

 

Dean hissing as you palm him through his  boxers. Your left hand is mostly clean and you slip it in, pulling his cock out through the slit, thumbing over the fluid gathered at the tip.

 

Dean watching through hooded eyes,  cupping your chin in one hand, lowering his lips to yours.

 

"Mmm, you like this. You like being dirty. Like having my dirty hands on you, don't you?"

 

You moan in response.

 

"Say it." Dean prompts gruffly.

 

"Yes, Dean, put your hands on me." You plead, hand still loosely wrapped around the length of his cock.

 

He exhales lowly, before deftly pulling your panties to the side. Under other circumstances he would like to take his time, feel how wet you are, stretch you out on fingers. But this isn't other circumstances , and he supposes there will be time for that later. 

 

You guide him to your entrance, Dean grasping your hip as he pushes in slowly, his other hand coming to rest around the base of your neck, watching the breath catch and hitch in your chest as you adjust to his size, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

 

Dean can scarcely believe how tight you are; he makes a broken, cut off sound as he bottoms out, lingering a few moments to gather himself.

 

 "Dean, please." You breathe.

 

"Don't worry, I'm gonna take good care of you sweetheart," his voice dark with promise.

 

He pulls out almost entirely, before rolling his hips back against yours, setting a rhythm of long, easy thrusts that has you seeing stars.

 

Your hands seek him out, fingers curling around each of his forearms, mimicking his hold on you, feeling the pull and flex of the fine muscles there. Legs tightening around his waist, Dean increasing force of his thrusts and the Impala creaks in response.

 

You angle your hips up to meet his, gasping sharply as the head of his cock brushes against that one spot. Dean smirks, curling his fingers tight against your skin in a way that's sure to leave bruises and the thought has you slickening around him. Dean changing the angle of his hips, swiping his thumb over the hollow of your throat. His rhythm still easy, enjoying the leisurely, filthy slide of his cock against your walls, but there's a power behind his thrusts that wasn't there before.

 

And then the hand at your waist is removed, and his thumb is pressing against your panty covered clit, just so, just the right amount of pressure that has you clenching around him, his name falling loudly from your lips, spine curving off of the hood of the Impala--pleasure wracking your body, dimly aware of Dean swearing, rhythm faltering as his cock swells and throbs within you.

 

The sound of ragged breath seems to echo off the harsh surfaces of the garage, Dean's face buried in the crook of your neck, hand that was wrapped around the base your throat now resting on your shoulder. You stroke your fingers through his cropped hair while you come to, trying to drag out the high for as long as possible.

 

Dean presses a kiss your collarbone, lips grazing your ear lobe.

 

"What do you say we go get cleaned up now?"

 

 

 


End file.
